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Topic: Whom the gods would destroy... (Read 86715 times)

For a moment, the beast was subdued. It would not last long, though, he expected. "Brother, the beast," spake Adan as he actually stepped back then, towards Ser Waltor, his blade making short work of the groggy commander's gag. "Tell them to stand down, good Ser," he ordered the captive, his blade still held high in threat, before he shouted once more,

"STAND DOWN, men of Von Hellen!"

For a moment, he prayed, prayed that there would be deliverance, and that the magi could restrain much of this pack of foes.

Gleaming missiles of dark-stained ash and rune-carved iron hurtled through the air as Vorodon hurled one dart after another at the ogre chief, only to have them glance harmlessly off of the ogres' rust-smeared helms or tangle in the behemoths' filthy cowhide cloaks. His eyes narrowed as the mighty volgottir watched his most trusted darts fail him: weapons he had carried since he had first grown to fit his ancestors' battle harness. They had always flown true before.

Whatever nature spirits these blasphemous, cow-eating tree-hackers may have angered, they must have found equally-powerful demons of carnage to guard them. A trickle of superstitious fear chilled the nape of Voro's neck. Mere months earlier, he would have had no protection against such otherworldly menaces. Darts would not suffice to overcome this threat, but Vorodon knew what would. He reached behind him to ease the massive axe from the rings suspending it.

When he had first taken up the battered iron weapon of the verbeeg leader, it had seemed as just another weapon. Endless hours of patient polishing had passed before Voro began to sense the weapon’s true spirit. Layered rust and filth had gradually rubbed away to expose strange whorls and ripples frozen in the steel, a flowing pattern of light and shadow coursing through the metal. A vague watery scent clung to the weapon, as if the splashing flow of a mountain stream danced within it.

The Son of Gorye stood ready for his foes, hefting the massive axe Mountain-stream. Voro sensed the weapon's power rising around him, as if raging white waters were about to break.

“What’s this?” Fat Orensil said in-between gasping breaths. Several of the larger men moved in around Matare, hemming him in, and seeking to protect their mayor from any potential harm.

“The Lady Thea you say?” this name carried some weight here in Meisingholdt, as Orensil now blinked in recognition.

“Speak on then, and quickly messenger, for this morn’ there is justice that needs doing! What is this message?”

The mob, or more like a buzzing bee-swarm, Aerex noted, seemed annoyed at the pause of the procession. Mumbling began, and a few folk still made their way down the long, rocky path, not waiting for Orensil and the main group, in order to catch a first glimpse of the by-now, no doubt withered and weakened tomb-robber.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Finally it seemed the soldiers took note of Adan's shouting. Almost upon him now, a knight leading the charge paused, raising a gauntlet to slow his men.

At the same time, the addled Lord Waltor Reymar found his voice, and still unable to comprehend exactly what was happening, acquiesed to Adan's demand.

"Stand down", he muttered at first, then louder, "Stand down. Hold your positions." He then proceeded to stare at Adan balefully, from his rug-prison.

The soldiers complied warily, eyeing their carpet-wrapped leader then Adan in turn.

The lead knight spoke. "What manner of attack is this? Release the Lord Reymar at once, or fall where you stand!"

-------------------------

Meanwhile, the other soldiers, those who had gained the hill to attack Kyrian (with ogres not far behind), half-cirlced the feline knight, yet did not draw in to engage. Warily, they held their shields and swords aloft, gauging the situation, while ignoring Kyrian's taunts. Even the ogres slowed now, seeing that Reymar's soldiers were undecided. It seemed the soldiers were waiting to see what happened, with their leader and the other men, before butchering the cocky knight before them.

-------------------------

(ooc: rolling involved)

Vorodon however, was not as lucky, as the two charging ogres and their monstrous leader raced toward the axe-wielding Volgottir. A great roar went up as the twin ogres leaped the log to attack.

One ogre suddenly howled, as he landed awkwardly, his leather-booted soul no match for Vorodon's buried dart, and staggered side-ways, losing his attack. The second ogre managed to avoid the giant caltrops, and reared his nail-studded club to smash Vorodon. Missing in a wide arc, it was now Vorodon's turn. In a moment, the ogre leader would arrive behind them, and mighty axe would clash with migty axe.

The hyaenodon struggled against the sticky magic strands of the web spell, enraged and chittering, like some mad four-legged jester. Still stuck, it was however beginning to rip free, staring at Kadarin, as the wizard in turn stared at the temporarily helpless creature.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Matare ignored the growing crowd, somewhat surprised the mayor had bothered to stop at all. He decided he'd need to get a better grasp of the politicking of this place, after he'd guaranteed his errant necromancer colleague wouldn't burn to death.

"The execution of this man, Dujek, must be halted," he said firmly. "He is a colleague of the lady's brother, Adan Hellschwert. They, and I, are of the same..." He furrowed his brow, trying to find the right word. What exactly was the collective of magicians, warriors, and myriad other folk Aerex had been a part of called? "The same band of adventurers," he settled. "Whatever accusations have been leveled against him are, I am sure, without merit."

"Without merit you say? We caught the foul one red-handed inside the mausoleum, casting spells and summoning the very dead! When confronted, he did not so much as offer a denial! Just mumbles and witch-words!"

"These are troublesome times, messenger. The north is overrun woth demons they say, and no doubt this miscreant is somehow a direct result of that infestation. We are Trigu-fearing folk here, and such brazen witchery shall not go unpunished!"

Orensil paused to catch his breath. He seemed to again ponder Matare's statement. The man had obvious respect for Lady Thea and now seemed to be debating something internally. His forehead beaded with sweat.

"You are welcome to come with us to the Fire-Wheel. We will question this warlock again, and see what he has to say."

Without waiting for Matare's responce, Mayor Orensil began his march again, the mob once more excited.

Within minutes, as Aerex kept pace with the procession, the great fire-wheel came finally into full view....and with it, the image of Dujek Slack-Jaw struggling against the last of his bindings (one ankle to go), and almost free.

"He is trying to escape!! He is almost free! Hurry!!" came the roar of the mob.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Aerex nodded to mayor's response. "I imagine he looked very much a necromancer. You see, he's a bit touched in the head - got a good knockabout while we were fighting some of undead, actually..."

The inspector was interrupted by the sudden outcry of the crowd. He jerked his head toward the fire-wheel, his stomach dropping at the sight of the squirming sorcerer. He looked again to Orensil. "The man's unwell, but he's not evil!" he shouted, already increasing his pace and heading for the instrument of death. "Just grant a stay of execution and I can explain!"

Pushing his way through the crowd, Matare sprinted to the wheel, putting himself between Dujek and the angry mob. "Don't you dare move a muscle," he ordered through grit teeth, then turned to the crowd and shouted, "Meisingholdters, stand down! He is a companion of Adan Hellschwert, brother of Lady Thea! Stand down!"

Seeing Aerex again, in such unfortunate circumstances no less, made Dujek feel all warm and fuzzy inside, much the way he did when he learned some new secret from the dead. On the other hand, Aerex was the only thing standing between him and near certain death, a very ignoble death at that. Dujek thought for a second and then stopped moving, he did however motion to his familar to keep trying to free his last ankle. Maybe that foul whore Luck would favor him with her smile once more.

Logged

For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

Both Kyrian and Kadarin moved closer to Adan and the carpet-lord from different directions. The ten men who were ready-to-engage Kyrian, moved when he moved. In Kadarin's case, only the hyaenodon's baleful eyes managed to follow the wizard, as the creature kept tearing at its unnatural bindings, soon to be loose.

Now thirty of the Lord's men were together again in a single unit. The two ogres meanwhile, losing interest in this slow-motion dance of humans, turned back toward their leader, their two brethren, and Vorodon.

For a moment silence reigned, and the air from everyone's breath steamed in the chilly pre-dawn.

Then something akin to the sounds of thunder and clanging metal erupted, punctuated by harsh ogrish shouts.

At this point, not cognizant of the temporary pause-and-parlay some distance away, the ogres and Vorodon battled like some crazed, primeval titans of a bygone age...

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

"Behold the ogryn! What ferocity, what primal rage! What a display of therian vis!"Kyrian swooned to distract the mob."As bears embattled, as crashing bulls! Sweep, thrust, decapitate! Preen!"

"What sayest thou - brother in arms? Shall we get inspired?"To the mob he turned, shouting a challenge!"'Tis wasteful to slay you all, henchmen! So, challenge me for the fate of your lord, of your camp, of your haphazard river dam! What has to be your number, how high, to stand against me in pitched combat?"

He smashed a mailed fist against his plate. "Step forth, and tell me where you dwell, so that I may go and comfort your widows!"

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

"Hear me, good citizens of Meisingholdt!" Shouted Orensil over the cacophany of the blood-thirsty mob. "Let us be prudent and listen to this man's tale. For surely, if we are not satisfied with the story, re-binding the warlock, and setting him a'fire, would take but a minute."

Orenisl turned to Aerex, as the mob mumbled. A few men moved closer to Dujek, just to make sure no foul tricks were being attempted by the necromancer or his sudden advocate.

Orensil nodded to Matare. "We do not even know your name, much less who you are. Know ye though, Lady Thea's name carries some weight here, but pray tell, what proof do you have that you even know her? Or she you? The name of Adan Hellschwert is but a distant memory. He was a kin-slayer, and has long vanished from our lands."

a pause

"Speak then, and let us judge your words."

A fat black fly was buzzing around Dujek's head, and finally landed on his forehead.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Releasing his grasp on the prisoner, leaving him chained to the tree, Adan stepped forwards, at last drawing his sword. His shield rose in front of him, its insignia clearly visible, the blade held at his side in a peculiar reverse grip, doubled back along his arm, the trapping stance peculiar to his families fighting art, hopefully one still recognizable, and fearsome. As his body straightened, he called forth, "I am Adan, scion of the Brightblade! In the name of the Lady, I abjure you! Be gone from these lands!"

And then, his voice rose, not in the catcalls of his fellow knight, but in deep, powerful song. An ancient hymnal of praise of his ancestress's power, pleading for a portion of that [em]rhin[/em]'s strength, in the elder tongue of that land, long forgotten to but the few who carried the blood. Rough and harsh, it would likely sound as a triumph and threat in one.

"I certainly am delighted to provide contrast to Adan's nobility" Kyrian smirked, for himself and mischievous fae that might listen. He heard Kadarin's chant over his mockery and the paladin's hymn, and prepared for the blast to come - muscles tensing, ready to leap to carve up any stragglers who were not well done.

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Lord Reymar's men were well-trained, but they were not trained to deal with imaginative foes.

At the sound of Adan's booming (though perhaps booming was the wrong word for what now escaped the Helllscwhert scion's lips) song, the men recoiled almost as one, backing up, shields raised, as though expecting some physical harm from the ancient hymnal.

"The Kin-Slayer!" one man yelled, and this proclamation almost sealed a mad retreat, but not quite.

At that same moment, one man, one brave and anxious soul, who could not abide Kyrian's taunts any longer, broke ranks, rushing suddenly and with a half-hearted shout of his own, "Von Hellen's wrath!" he yelled, and "Have at thee!", charging the feline knight, sword and shield raised. A swing from his blade, and Lo! (.....initiative Echo, i rolled a 4)

The bizarre scene would seem almost comical to onlookers, yet no mirth was present here this day.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers, less brave, (or more sane) were a single unit of raised shields, like some giant confused armadillo, backing away from the possessed Adan.

-----------

And then, nothing mattered anymore.

A great ball of fire erupted from seemingly nowhere, exploding over and through the now (conveniently) tightly-packed soldiers. Men burned alive inside their armor like giant craw-fish, their protective shells, now melding with their flesh and roasting it. Screams of agony drowned out Adan's dirge, and even the roar of Vorodon and the ogres (in a pitched battle to the death, oblivious to what was happening one hundreds yards away from them)

Men burned. Men with families and dreams, but men who happened to be on the wrong side this day.

Mouse looked up at Kadarin with a look of what amounted to awe. The wizard did not notice. He watched the two ogres, as they managed to escape his fiery blast.

Gods be good, the lone warrior who was brave enough to rush at Kyrian with murderous intent, did not give up, nor ask for quarter, but swung his sword with fatal determination at Kyrian's head, even as his comrades burned.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

"Have at thee!" Kyrian laughed as he swung at the woefully slow footman. The world was right - there was drama, there was struggle, good and evil opposed.(OOC: to hit - a 9 rolled, +sword+str+proficiency+level, damage 8+whatever)"You should instruct me in your hymn's words one day, Adan, for I find it to my liking! But today - a fool, two brutes, and a fetid hound!"

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

"Verdammen! Lives, wasted. The sword of the Demon-slayer's line tires of blood, it would prefer ichor." He had meant to negotiate in good faith. But, as always, Chaos had closed in. And so he moved on, leveling a single harsh kick at the warrior that faced Kyrian, not meaning so much to injure him as to trip him up as he passed on wards to set himself between mage and monster.

Aerex cleared his throat. "Right. Well." He pulled back his hat a bit. Although he'd testified in a few cases before the municipal tribunals of Jantir, and even once been called as an expert witness in a royal imperial trial, he didn't make public speeches a regular habit. And even then, those were formal courtrooms, where there was at least the facade of seeking truth and justice. Here, the inspector figured the crowd just as likely to attach him to some flaming instrument of death as his erstwhile ward.

Placing his hands behind his back, he began to pace in front of the wheel, imitating the barristers he'd seen in Jantir's courts. "Meisingholdters," he began, in as loud a clear voice he could muster. "You are a fair and just people. It is quite understandable that you have placed this man, Dujek, onto your wheel of justice given the circumstances you must have witnessed." He paused as a few murmurs went through the crowd.

"However. This is merely a case of mistaken identity, of mistaken purposes and motives. Has anyone of you actually spoken to this man? In speaking to him, you would surely recognize that he is, as medicine would call him, an idiot. There is in him no rationality, no reason. Intelligence? Perhaps. But it is not backed by any social ability, nor grace, nor sense. Dujek is, in short, incapable of rational thought, stricken from a heavy blow to the head some time ago. I cannot say whether his curse is the result of poor fortune or an affliction sent by a god, but regardless, we must grant that this man has little control over his thoughts, words, or - indeed - actions."

Aerex cleared his throat again. He couldn't gauge the mob's response yet, but he hoped they were at least a little opened by his argument. "Now then, having established that Dujek is incapable of reasonable action, we must also grant that his actions can be neither rational, nor guilty. They are irrational in that he cannot produce reasonable thought, and innocent in that they are irrational and meaningless. A man without sense could no more summon the dead than he could make a just offering to a god. Why? If he cannot have a true thought, then he cannot have true intent. While you doubtless found him muttering to himself and waving hands at your dead, it carried the same meaning as a parrot imitating the words of a priest: the words may have been the same, but the action is void and without power. There is no guilt in him, he is incapable of bearing guilt in a crime he cannot commit sanely.

"So then, having established that he cannot bear guilt in this, then we must conclude he is innocent of the charge brought against him. No doubt what he did was offensive, and in that I share your disgust. But to level death against him would be to strangle a cursing parrot - punishing with guilt that which cannot commit a crime. This, noble Meisingholdters, is the sin of injustice, a sin you would surely be loathe to commit. So if not for his sake, then for your own, Meisingholdt. Release this man to my custody, and I'll be sure that he troubles you no more."

Finishing, Matare sighed and held his breath, waiting to see if he should bow or run.

Murzok Gorbund opened his eyes. As soon as he did, he heard a low growl inches from his face. A huge wolf was staring back at him, a few fangs showing in warning.

“Easy doggy, easy”, the thief whispered and attempted to take in the rest of his surroundings, which wasn’t easy, since his legs and arms were currently tied to a stout birch tree, and his line of vision limited.

A few dozen feet away Murzok could make out the one-eyed mage, his captor, who had her back turned to him, stoking a small fire. He could not see it, but could smell a rabbit roasting. The thief licked his lips, thirsty and starved.

How long have I been tied up here, he wondered, and what was this &^%$@ planning for him anyway?

He was more than a little nervous. A day ago (two? He could not be sure), he was living high on the hog with his fellow miscreants, robbing travelers and raping an occasional village girl, who wandered too far from any given village to pick mushrooms or berries. Life was good. The new forest lair was perfectly situated, not too far and not too near from half a dozen thorpes and villages in the area, yet well-hidden. It seemed that all of Landeel was pre-occupied with some sort of local war, happening somewhere to the east, and it was easier than ever to perpetrate the kind of petty crimes that Murzo and his cronies were known for.

Until the day the one-eyed wench had stumbled upon their forest hide-out, unannounced and unwanted. One thing led to another (what did she expect anyway, a warm welcome?) and before long, the mage had burned down their cabin, sending the criminals running in all directions.

The direction Murzok chose was the unlucky one, and before long the mage and her gods-forsaken wolf had caught up to him. Murzok tried everything. First his charm (that didn’t work), then he tried the “I’m-gonna-tear-your-teats-off!” approach to scare her (mistake, that), then finally he tried pleading (to no avail.)

Now, a few days later, he was her prisoner, and gods only knew what she had planned for him.

Tristan walked silently, making his way through forest-shrouded Landeel, his mind preoccupied with many thoughts. He was somewhat perturbed (still, though it was now weeks later) that he had somehow missed his rendezvous with Adan and Kyrian. But more so, his thoughts kept coming back to Jantir and the Symposium, where his impromptu speech had given rise to pandemonium, the likes of which had not been seen in Jantir for many years. It took quite a few squads of the bird-masked city guardsmen to quell the riots, as monks, priests, and holy men of every ilk, “warred” in the great amphitheater, and then the streets themselves.

And all because of Tristan’s speech...

----------------------------

The wolf suddenly left Murzok’s side, and sidled up to Kisanth, who was indeed roasting a scrawny hare her lupine lover had caught for her, hours earlier. A nudge with his nose, and a then a quick look toward the bawn of the forest, and the mage knew she had company.

Hopefully more of Murzok’s fellow scum, she had time to think, but then saw a tall, armored figure striding purposefully from the woods toward the clearing, where she was now making camp. A priest? A knight? Whoever it was, he was clearly lost in his own thoughts, though she could not gauge his expression or intent, due to the helm covering most of his face. She could not be sure. But certainly, not another Murzok.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Rising, Kisanth covered the scar and her missing eye with a lock of blonde hair by way of a quick shake of her head, raising her voice in cautious greeting; "Hail and well met traveler, where does such a purposeful pace take you?" She took a quick half step to the side, placing her staff between the brooding newcomers path and her roasting dinner, mildly concerned the armored oaf marching towards her would stride straight through her fire did she not acquire his attention before hand.

With a quick hand gesture she signaled Lover to keep an eye on her prisoner, she had plans for that one, a gelding with a hot blade for starters, and then some pointed follow up questions as to where the rest of his friends regrouping point was. Such filth were often worth a few coin as a bounty, and she'd heard accounts of this particular band of filth doing lots worse then merely waylaying travelling merchants for coin.

Such beasts needed to be put down like the sick animals they were; for the peace of the surrounding region and no small bit of justice.

Vorodon stepped back as the first of the behemoths leapt over the log, swinging its filthy spiked club in a mighty overhand chop. Lean and wiry for its kind, the ogre had affixed the withered heads of a dozen fallen foes to the battle-scarred face of its shield. The battered skulls rattled and clattered as the malevolent creature hurled itself forward.

Unfortunately for the monstrous warrior, it failed to spot the gleaming iron heads of Vorodon’s darts hidden among the tangled undergrowth. The ogre shrieked as the hidden weapon tore through its calf, its strangely high-pitched screech echoing through the forest as Vorodon stepped clear of its club’s wild swing.

Inspired by his trap’s success, Vorodon’s axe bored into his enemy's defenses in a relentless barrage of blows. Each powerful swing carved additional divots from the ogre's decrepit shield, the mighty impacts echoing through the trees like thunder. The ancient battle cries of Vorodon’s ancestors boomed out to punctuate his frenzied assault, his shouted imprecations condemning his foes as unworthy fodder for even Gora’am’s ravenous appetite.

In violent retaliation, the beleaguered ogre’s spiked club lashed out at the volgottir. Despite the wiry ogre’s fearsome power, Vorodon's ancestral armor proved impervious to the club’s iron spikes.

Suddenly, Vorodon saw the second ogre veering left to get behind him. Its ragged cowhide cloak tossed aside lest it tangle in the trees’ gnarled branches, it swung well clear of Voro’s hidden darts. In its meaty paws, this ogre grasped a massive weapon, a filthy saw-toothed falchion solidly affixed to a cumbersome, metal-shod pikestaff. A lesser warrior would be hard pressed to lift the massive polearm, but Vorodon’s foe made light work of it, tearing aside tree limbs with scything swings of its weapon.

This would not do! Vorodon kicked at the first ogre’s shield, driving it backward onto its injured leg. The wounded ogre screeched in pain, briefly falling to one knee as its wounded leg failed to support it.

Ducking away from his distracted foe, Vorodon ducked under a low-hanging limb and rushed toward this new opponent. He swung his axe to force his foe to guard its head, only to see it instead lurch backward, swinging its crude voulge up from below! Pain lanced through the hill warrior as the monster’s blade unexpectedly tore through his armor, biting deep into Vorodon’s leg. With an vengeful bellow, Vorodon staggered closer, his axe whirling wrathfully. It smashed across the creature’s head, sending its rusted helm flying off into the underbrush. The huge creature stumbled awkwardly against a tree, momentarily stunned by Vorodon’s mighty blow.

The ogres’ chieftain drew closer, slamming its grim axe’s haft against its rust-smeared breastplate to punctuate its shouted insults. A look of feral savagery filled its piggish red eyes.

Orensil and the mob listened to Aerex’ impassioned speech, yet their reaction was hard to judge at first.

Someone mumbled, “He lost me at idiot”, another, “this is some trick”, yet a third muttered, “He makes sense, I mean look at that drooling buffoon sitting there, clacking his jaw.”

Finally, Orensil spoke.

“What you say makes sense. Did we mistake his gibbering for spell-casting, I wonder?”

"He does have the look of an imbecile”, Orensil added, glancing at Dujek, who was opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, trying to adjust his jaw.

"Well, citizens of Meisingholdt, what say ye having listened to this man’s tale?”

Aerex held his breath.

Then nature intervened.

A gentle roll of thunder sounded, and a steady drizzle began soaking the mob seconds later, cooling their murderous ardor.

A few mumbles, a few shouts of “Burn him anyway!” and a few retorts of “Well, can’t burn him now with the rain and all”. Some of the townsfolk actually began to separate from the mob, walking back to town.

A small boy approached Dujek, and tried poking him with a stick.

“Hear ye! It is my judgement on this Day of Worms, that the accused, shall be granted his freedom, and set free, with a caveat. If ever he is seen in Mesingholdt or its environs again, he will immediately be tied to horses and quartered.”

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p